Father's Day
by mkaz
Summary: On the holiday, several Heroes take a moment to reflect on the men in their lives. Not actionpacked, but contemplative and setting up the big finale to come.
1. Chapter 1

For the first time in a week, Matt could actually hear the silence of the night. It was beautiful, clear and cool, but he wasn't paying attention to it. Instead, his attention was focused on the tiny human being lying in the wooden crib in the center of the room. Its miniature fists were clenched next to the pudgy baby face, and the little chest moved in and out slowly, the sweet indication of restful sleep. He sighed and smiled. His son. He was the most beautiful thing Matt had ever seen, and he knew he'd be happy if he could just sit like that for the rest of his life, looking.

"There you are," a soft voice said behind him. He turned to find his wife, Janice, standing in the doorway, smiling.

He smiled back. "I just…wanted to watch him. Couldn't help it."

"I know what you mean. But I guess that's the way you always feel with your first." Janice came and sat down next to her husband. "You should be getting to bed. Little Matt's finally calmed down. Take advantage of it."

"Oh, that's all right. Tomorrow's Sunday. I've got the whole day to rest."

Janice chuckled. "As new parents, we need to treasure our sleep. Even if it is Father's Day."

At the mention of the holiday, Matt sighed. Janice looked at him in a puzzled way and asked what was wrong.

"I'm thinking of him," the former policeman told his wife. "What he's going to inherit from me."

Janice sighed and put her hand on his shoulder, smiling sadly. Her expression was comforting, but then Matt heard her thoughts. _I know what you mean. If I knew my son was going to be a freak, I'd never have married you._

Matt sat back in surprise. How could Janice think something like that?

But she acted as if she didn't understand. "Honey…what's wrong?"

"Did you forget that I can hear thoughts?" Matt snapped. "I didn't realize you thought that I was a freak." He got up from his chair and walked to the window.

"Wha—Matt, what are you talking about?" Janice asked in shock. "I don't think you're a freak. Or our son. Where did you get that idea?"

"I just heard you, Janice," Matt argued. "I heard you as clearly as if you were talking. You thought that if you knew that your son was going to be a freak, you would never have married me."

Janice gasped in surprise, and walked up to him, putting out her hand to touch his back. "I didn't think that! I swear I didn't. I was thinking that no matter what happened, we'd be all right, as long as we were together."

Matt shrugged off her hand and turned to face her. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but decided that he didn't want any more arguments. Finally, he said, "I'm going to bed. Good night." With that, he left the room.

Janice stood there for a while, trying to figure out what happened. She hadn't been thinking what Matt had heard at all—nothing even close to it. She couldn't understand. If it wasn't her that Matt heard—who was it?

Eventually she went to bed, fell asleep, and they each silently agreed the next day not to talk about what had happened the previous night. Matt awoke, at eight, alone. Janice was sitting in the rocking chair by the window, feeding their son. Her hair looked red in the bright streams of sun.

He smiled, and promptly forgot the words he had heard in his head. Then the phone by the bed rang. He reached over and answered it.

"Matt?" a voice with a refined British accent came on the other end. "Did I wake you up?"

"Mohinder?" Matt sat up straight in bed now. "It's fine, man. I actually woke up a few minutes before you called. How are you?"

There was a light chuckle. "Feeling a bit sheepish, actually. I forgot that there's a five hour difference. I just wanted to wish you a happy Father's Day."

Matt chuckled as well. "Well, thanks. I—well, sometimes I can't believe I'm actually a father. It's like a dream." The last sentence came out a bit lower in key, though Matt hoped that Mohinder didn't pick that up.

Unfortunately for him, the geneticist had noticed the change in his friend's tone. "Matt? Is—is everything all right?"

Matt paused, and looked at Janice, who was cooing to their newborn son and was apparently oblivious. Carefully he got out of bed and walked out of the room.

"Yes, I'm fine," Matt finally answered when he felt he was at a safe distance. He didn't know if he should tell Mohinder about his worries about his son. He was sure that if he did tell his friend, that the latter would probably give him a very scientific explanation, designed to make him feel better: that it was all evolution, and inescapable. But that didn't help Matt's worries.

"Are you sure?" Mohinder asked.

Matt laughed as lightly as he could. "Yes. I guess it's just 'new father' jitters."

"And…that's everything?"

With that question, the events of the previous night flashed through Matt's mind. Should he tell Mohinder? What could the Indian geneticist do about it, anyway? He closed his eyes and sighed. "Yes. Yes, that's everything." He quickly changed the subject. "How's Molly? Is she enjoying England?"

"I think she is. She loves the parks, hates the food."

Matt laughed. "Ok. Well, give her a hug for me. We can't wait for you two to visit and see the baby."

"Neither can we. I'll let you go. Tell Janice I said hello."

"I will. Bye."

"Bye."

Matt pressed the button on the phone to end the call, then, sighing, made his way back into their bedroom. Janice was now standing up from the rocking chair, about to put him back to bed. When she saw him, she smiled.

"He was hungry this morning," she told him. "But he's ready for another nap. Aren't you, my pretty little boy?"

"I'll take him back to bed," Matt told her. She acquiesced and she put their son in his arms. He walked him to the next room, laying him down in the soft blue covers of the crib.

Little Matt stared up at his father with large dark eyes. Matt gently smoothed the soft fuzz of hair on his head.

"Hey buddy," Matt told him. "Today is a special day for me, and you know why? It's because of you." He now put a light cover over his son. "Ohh…son. It's a strange world now. I wish I could have made it easy for you. But I promise, I'll do everything in my power to protect you and your mom…no matter what comes our way." He reached over and kissed his son's head. "I love you, Buddy. Never forget that."

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

Molly sat up in the big stuffed chair as her guardian chatted with their friend, Matt Parkman. His wife Janice had had the baby just a few weeks ago—a boy—and she couldn't wait to see him. Mohinder thought it would be nice to call Matt and wish him the best on his first Father's Day.

At last, Mohinder smiled and hung up the phone. Then he turned to her and took her in his arms, swinging her around and then coming to rest on the sofa. She squealed in delight.

"Finally, I have a day off from my work, and we can spend the day together," Mohinder said. "What would you like to do, darling?"

Molly beamed and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I don't care. As long as we're together."

Mohinder smiled and put Molly down. "Why don't we go visit Picadilly Circus? We haven't seen that yet."

"Sounds good. I'm gonna go get my purse!"

Mohinder couldn't help but smile as he watched his young charge run to her room to get the purse he'd bought for her a few weekends earlier. She loved the blue denim bag; she took it everywhere they went, feeling that she was grown up like all the other girls and women on the streets. She didn't have much to carry, but every time she got something new—a watch, a pad of paper, a pen—she'd put it in the bag.

Behind Mohinder's smile, he sighed from his own pensiveness. Molly was still a little girl, but she was growing up. She was happy with him, for now, but what about in just a few years, when she was a young woman? She'd want a mother around to talk to about…certain things. He had cringed once when he thought of having to have "the talk" with her someday. Knowing himself, a doctor, his approach would be very black and white scientific. But Molly needed more than that. She needed to know about those moments in life that separated childhood from adulthood.

It was moments like these that Mohinder almost wished that he'd made Molly go to live with D.L. and Niki Hawkins. The newly reunited couple had a boy about Molly's age, and they were very enthusiastic about making the little girl a part of their family. But Molly set her chin and insisted that she "had" to stay with Mohinder.

He remembered all of them gathering at a diner not too far away from Kirby Plaza, after everything had happened. Molly held on to Mohinder's hand tightly, whispering to him, "I want to stay with you."

Mohinder looked at Niki with uneasiness, but the blond woman smiled and said, "That's all right. D.L. and I are still trying to get back on our feet financially. And it's clear she's fond of you."

So Mohinder took Molly. They got through the somber moments in New York, lived through their encounter with Sylar and Claire in Ohio, and were now enjoying the comfort of his lectureship at Oxford. He was at the university three times a week, and the rest of the time he spent at the apartment doing his research, and tutoring Molly. He had to admit, it was all pleasant. But beneath the everyday contentment, even beneath his doubts about his ability to be a foster parent, there was dread lurking in Mohinder's heart. It was the calm before the storm. He just hoped that he and Molly would be able to weather it.

Their day at Picadilly was pleasant enough. Molly enjoyed the shops, but Mohinder wished he had taken her at night, so that she could see the neon signs all lit up. He bought her ice cream and sat with her as she greedily gulped it down. People walked by and smiled at the dark slender man and his little companion. Mohinder was sure that they wondered how they were associated. Certainly no one would mistake them for being father and daughter.

Yet, Mohinder loved this girl like his own. He was beginning to feel that in protecting her, in putting her life before his, she was his strength. He wondered if his father would be proud of him.

He had never forgotten his conversation with Sylar when he'd finally captured him. Bound and supposedly helpless, but still with that maddening smirk on his face, the serial killer rubbed it in his face that Chandra had considered him fragile. He lashed out, holding it over his prisoner's head that he was the more moral of the two. But the whole time, he knew that Sylar was right. He was fragile, and his father had seen that.

However, Mohinder was not the fresh-faced scientist with all the answers as he had been in India. The world was bigger, and darker. Sometimes he wished he'd stayed in India, denying to himself that he had more questions than answers.

"Mohinder?" the tiny voice brought him back to reality.

He looked down at his charge, who had now finished her cone and looked like she was ready to go. "I'm sorry, darling," Mohinder said, putting on a smile. "I was lost in my own thoughts."

He felt her warm little hand grasp his. "It's going to be okay. It'll be hard for a while, but it will work out. You'll see."

Mohinder smiled now, genuinely, at Molly's words. He wondered if part of her gift was precognition in addition to tracking. She was a child, and she loved the things of childhood, but every now and then she would say something beyond her years.

As they now arrived at their flat, Mohinder couldn't help but think back to what she'd said. "Molly…what did you mean when you said that it will be hard for a while, but it will work out?"

The little girl was now looking through the bags of things she'd persuaded Mohinder to buy for her. She calmly took out a book of sudoku puzzles and began to look through it. "I meant that there's something big coming. I don't know what it is, but it'll bring us all together again."

Mohinder walked closer to the sofa where she sat. "Who?" he asked.

She now looked at him. "Matt, Micah, D.L., Niki, Claire, Mr. Bennet…the Boogey-Man. We're all connected to one another."

He sighed. How to take care of a child who seemed to know more than he? Finally, he said, "Well, we'll see, love. We'll see. I'll go start dinner." He began to walk away.

Molly looked down in her purse and pulled something out. "Mohinder? Wait."

He turned around. "Yes?"

She walked up to him and handed him a light blue envelope. "Here. I bought it while you were looking at computers in that one big store."

Puzzled, Mohinder opened the envelope to find a green and white card with a picture of a boat on the water. In dark gold lettering at the very top, it read: "To a Wonderful Father on His Special Day."

He opened the card and tried to read the words inside, but he was too overwhelmed by the few words on the front to concentrate. Wordlessly he held the child against him and kissed the top of her head. He now knelt down to her level and saw, much to his surprise, that she had tears in her eyes. He said gently, "Darling…you know I love you like my own, but…you had a father."

"So did you," she told him. "And I know you didn't forget him. I didn't forget my dad either. But we're together because we're supposed to be. I need you, and you need me. _You're_ my dad now."

They didn't say any more about it for the rest of that night. Mohinder made them dinner—Molly's favorite, spaghetti—then afterwards tucked her into bed.

He kissed her soft round cheek. "Goodnight, my love," he told her. "Sleep well." He left the room, turning out the light and shutting the door behind him.

She smiled and snuggled into the covers. She tried to sleep, but she couldn't help thinking of what was to come. And, as always, thinking of what was coming made her think of _him_.

And she was there, with him. He could see her. His eyes were burning right into her. The worst thing about him was that he looked perfectly sweet, perfectly harmless. But Molly knew better.

He smiled his evil smile at her. "Can't stop thinking about me, Sweetheart?" he said in a grandfatherly voice. Molly felt sick listening to it. She held her head in her hands, trying to make herself stop thinking of him.

"Awww…what's the matter? Do I frighten you?" the old man taunted. Suddenly, he pried her hands away from her face and pulled her to him. "You can't stop me. No one can stop me. When all of this is over, all of you will be dead, including that little Indian surrogate father of yours."

"No!" Molly cried out, throwing his arms from her. "We'll fight you." She shut her eyes tightly now, thinking only of Mohinder.

And then, she was back in her bed. She panted and looked around, her nerves still on fire from what had happened. She lay back in bed, staring out the window. He was out there. And he had someone with him. She could just barely make her out; she appeared to be dark and slight, but it hid a much different form that she was ashamed of. Molly closed her eyes when she thought of the young woman with him. He would ruin her. Molly was sure of it.

She opened them again, and her mind wandered to the only other man who had put fear in her heart. He was very far away, still in America, but she knew she'd see him again. He was very different now. Molly knew he loved Claire, and, in his own way, he cared for Mohinder as well. She knew the Boogey-Man made Mohinder uneasy. But she also knew that they all needed him—if any of them wanted a future.

Gabriel wasn't thinking about the future at that moment. He wasn't thinking of the road stretched in front of him, or the dark storm clouds that seemed to be gathering, or even of the pretty blonde girl who was driving the car and that he loved. The only thing he could concentrate on was the terrible pain he was in.

It wasn't physical pain—not all of it, at least. It was, mainly, the pain of his mind. He was beginning to feel the effects of a soul reclaimed—the terrible guilt of the crimes he had committed.

It had begun as a twinge, a nagging thought. He started having it after he had awakened from his coma. Then, he began to relive his crimes in shattering vividness. He'd close his eyes and he'd see the terror in his victims eyes, hear their bloodcurdling screams. Why hadn't he seen and heard all that before? But he had, he knew. He just didn't care at that time. All he was concerned with was the power he was going to get. His victims were like defective watches with useful parts inside. He just needed to crack open the glass and metal frames and pick out the working parts.

But they weren't watches anymore; they were people. Granted, he still had his qualms with the laziness, superficiality, and idiocy of some of humanity, but they were all people to him now. Claire had made him see that.

And now, knowing that his victims were people that he had killed, he was in agony. He'd look at his hands, expecting to see blood coating them. But there was no blood. He was in the world, and free. Someone loved him. He didn't deserve it.

There was one way, he found, that he could make his pain go away. When he saw one of his victims in the back of his mind, he'd take Claire in his arms. He'd caress her back, rubbing in a circle in that way she loved. He'd bury his face in her neck or between her breasts, concentrating on the sweet scent of her skin and its softness. She was nearly always willing and yielding to him. They'd make love, sometimes softly, sometimes with a fierceness that surprised both of them. Then they'd lie spent together, and Gabriel was able to forget for a while, basking instead in the feelings of post-coital euphoria…

But those feelings always wore off and he'd go back to quietly writhing in the weight of his conscience.

Now, he couldn't even use sex as a way of relieving his mind. The previous night, he had a dream that began pleasantly enough. He was in a field of wildflowers, the sun just above him and shining with all its heat and intensity. He was lying on top of Claire, her golden skin fully exposed to the day. Her hair spread out on the ground like a cloud of yellow silk, and her beautiful blue eyes got darker as he entered her, again and again.

Her face began to cringe, and she pursed her lips as if to cry out. He knew she was close to climax. He wrapped his arms under her, pulling her closer to him. Her head came to rest in his shoulder as she screamed her release.

But as she pulled away, Gabriel realized, in horror, that it no longer was Claire lying beneath him, but instead, Charlie Andrews. She was looking up at him now, fear and horror, and agony on her face. Her eyes rolled in the back of her head, and now there was blood pouring from her forehead. Gabriel cried out and tried to let go of her, but now he found he was in a river of blood, sinking, drowning…

His eyes flew open, and he found with relief that he was in bed and it had been a dream. Reality came back to him quickly as his heart started to return to a normal beat. He turned over to find Claire lying next to him, peacefully asleep. He gently moved a stray lock of her from her face and looked at her. He couldn't tell her. What good would it do? It would just upset her, and there was nothing she could do, anyway.

He turned now to lie on his back and he stared up at the ceiling. He couldn't—didn't want to—go back to sleep. He knew from the light coming through the window that day was about to come. It was all right. He didn't need more sleep.

But now, with the two of them on the road, Gabriel felt drowsy. He was glad Claire volunteered to drive, because he didn't think he could do it. But at the same time, he didn't want to sleep. He was afraid of what might be waiting for him, in his dreams.

"Gabriel?" Claire's voice roused him out of his thoughts.

"What?" he said, now looking at her.

"I said, it's almost noon. Maybe we should stop for some lunch."

"Yeah—yes, that's fine."

Claire looked at him, briefly, before turning her eyes back to the road. "Are you all right?"

Gabriel looked out of the window. "Yes. I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

He felt her take his hand in hers. "Well, I'll finish out the drive for today. We'll get a good night's rest, and then you'll feel better."

Gabriel all of sudden felt like he was holding something in his hands that he had no right to and quickly let go, still hoping that she wouldn't be offended in his rash action. "Actually, I'm going to try to take a nap. Why don't you wake me when you've found a place you want to eat?"

Claire was silent for a moment, but then nodded.

Gabriel pressed his head to the window and closed his eyes, making sure he didn't fall asleep, but instead trying to retreat into his memories. He wanted to remember a time when he felt no pain…

Eight year-old Gabriel pulled open the door to his father's shop, slightly surprised at the weight of it. There was the ding of the bell above, letting his father know that a customer was here. His father walked out of his work room, preparing to give his customary greeting, but instead grinned when he saw it was his only child. He opened his arms.

"Gabe! What are you doing here?" his father asked as he enveloped his son in a hug.

"Mama sent me to tell you to pick up some milk and eggs tonight," young Gabriel replied.

"I see," John Gray said, his face darkening slightly. "Is she outside?"

"Uh huh," Gabriel answered.

John looked at the front door to his shop and, telling his son to stay there, went outside. Gabriel wandered around the floor of his father's store, looking at the glittering little watches, the larger mantle clocks, the big clock with the cuckoo in it. He heard the rising voice of his mother outside and looked toward the door, but was by now somewhat used to it. His parents fought a lot.

But his father returned with a smile. "Your mother's going to go home, and you're going to stay with me till the end of the day. Then, we'll go to the store together and get the things for dinner: sound good?"

"Yep!" Gabriel said. "Daddy…why do you fix watches?"

With that, John Gray lifted Gabriel to the stool at his workbench and looked at him closely. "Why do you ask? Did your mother say something to you?"

"No," he replied, picking up a magnifying glass. "I just wondered why. It looks like it would be boring to do this all the time."

John chuckled. "It's not boring to me, Gabe. I find it fascinating. Besides," he said, taking the glass out of his son's hand, "It's important work."

"Really?" Gabriel couldn't believe it. His mother always said that it was useless, but he knew better than to bring her up at a time like that.

"Oh yes. Did you know that God is a watchmaker?"

"God?"

"Yep. God. According to some people, God wound the universe up like a clock, and then let it run all on its own. The universe keeps its own time, and works by it."

"Who believes that?"

"Well, a lot of people have. Do you know who Thomas Jefferson was?"

"Yep. In school, we learned he was the third president of the United States."

"That's right! And he believed that God was the first watchmaker, making the world and all of us, and letting us live our lives the way we want."

Gabriel was silent for a while, staring at all the cogs and springs on the table. "But…that's not what Mommy believes. She said that God controls everything we do."

John now put his hands on his sons shoulders and looked him right in the eye. "Gabe…there's something I want you to remember, no matter what happens. Your life is yours to live the way you want. Don't let anyone tell you that it's not good enough or not exciting enough. You'll find your own way in this world. Do you understand me?"

Gabriel stared at his father. He'd never heard him talk like that. "Yes, daddy. I understand."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. He was in the mustang, and Claire had opened his door, standing outside of it and looking in at him. "We're here. Let's go get something to eat."

Gabriel yawned and stretched himself. Then he followed Claire into the diner she'd chosen for lunch.

"I just realized something," Claire told him as their order arrived.

"What's that?"

"Today is June 17th."

"And…?"

"It's Father's Day, Gabriel."

He chuckled to himself. Claire smiled in confusion and asked what was so funny.

"It's appropriate, because I was thinking of my father before we got here."

"You don't think of him often?"

Gabriel looked away. "I don't like to think of him, because then I remember how far I strayed from the person he wanted me to be."

"And what did he want you to be?"

"Good. Happy."

"I see," Claire sat back in her seat. "Well, I know you're working on the 'good' part, but…you're not happy?"

Gabriel could see the look in Claire's eyes. She wanted to know that she made him happy. It was one of the things that annoyed him—her insecurities. She wouldn't understand that it just wasn't possible to be happy all the time, that there were moments, fleeting moments, that gave him happiness but faded away as surely as the sun set in the sky every evening.

So, he quickly remade his answer. "My father had a certain idea of what happiness was. And my life hasn't adhered to that."

To his relief, Claire just nodded. "My father always had a similar idea. At least, that's the front he put on. Now, I'm not sure what he wants."

Gabriel cocked a brow. He knew how much Noah loved Claire, and vice versa, but she rarely spoke of his secrets. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I had a clear picture of who my father was as a child: a hard-working family man. But, now that I've grown up, and all these things have been revealed, he's a different person. And I just haven't had the chance to learn who he is."

Gabriel nodded. In a way, he knew what that was like. He knew who has father was as a child, but he spent a good part of his adulthood without him. Had his father lived, would he still have become Sylar? Now, that he thought about it, probably not. His father would have continued the store; Gabriel might not have even retained his job. And even if he did, his father would have been there the day Chandra Suresh entered his store. Not only would Gabriel have not felt the need for a father figure if John had been there, but when Chandra Suresh told him he wasn't special, his father would have been there to comfort him. Yes, if John Gray had lived, Gabriel wouldn't have become Sylar.

And he wouldn't have become a murderer…oh, he wouldn't have all that blood on his hands now. His soul would be clean. His mind would be at peace. His body wouldn't ache. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what that would have been like: to live in the world and live with himself.

Claire watched her lover from across the table, watching him wrestling quietly with something dark and compelling. She was sure that he thought she didn't know what was happening, but she did. She felt it in their lovemaking, in his frantic embraces, in his needy caresses. He wanted her to help him forget.

Truthfully, Claire hadn't minded. She wanted to do some forgetting of her own. After all she had been through, she'd found that her most fulfilling moments now were when she and Gabriel were in each other's arms.

She remembered when it wasn't like that. There was a time when contentment was guaranteed with every second of her life. She lived and breathed happiness. And, what now surprised her, was that she never even realized it.

What she also now realized was that it had been her father who had sculpted that fragile, perfect world for her. He took her in, raised her, watched her, protected her from the Company that wanted her back. His life revolved around hers, when all along it seemed that her life revolved around his.

God, she missed him so much. She didn't think it was possible to long for someone to that extent. She now felt tears burning her eyes as she sat in silence with her partner.

"You miss him, don't you?" she heard Gabriel say.

"Yes," Claire said with a sad smile. "I'd give anything to see him again."

"He's not gone, you know," he replied. "It's not like he's…" he hesitated saying the man's name.

"It's not like he's who?" Claire prodded. "Do you mean…Nathan?"

Gabriel nodded. "Petrelli's your real father. Do you ever think of him?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "All I think is how much of a disgrace he saw me as." She now looked at her partner, anger rising. "The great senator of New York couldn't stand to have his illegitimate child ruining his campaign. Well, I didn't ask to be born! No one forced him to have an affair with my biological mother. And I never asked him for anything. I didn't want his money, or his name. I just wanted to know who I was."

"Claire…he's gone now. What's the point in dwelling on all of that?"

Claire realized he was right and chuckled bitterly. "Maybe…it's because I never had the chance to make up with him."

Gabriel shrugged. "You've got a good relationship with…Peter," he said the name somewhat distastefully; he disliked the pretty boy, after all. "And there's still your grandmother, and Nathan's wife…and the children he had with her."

"Peter and I are fine. My grandmother…well, she's as much of a stranger to me as Nathan is. And Nathan's wife and children? Why would they want to have anything to do with me?"

"Well…you might be right about that, Chief. But just remember: you might not consider Nathan your father, but he was a father to someone. And today is not going to be easy for them."

Claire was taken aback by Gabriel's statement. For the first time since she learned of her heritage, Claire now took a moment to think of Nathan's sons—her half-brothers—and what this day would mean for them.


	2. Chapter 2

Croissants, pear and walnut salad, baked brie, smoked salmon, baklava.

This was the menu Angela Petrelli ordered for her brunch with her son, Peter, her daughter in law, Heidi, and her two grandsons, Simon and Monty. It wasn't going to be a happy day, but she hoped it would at least be a pleasant day. Father's Day would be a dull ache for all of them; this would be Peter's second without his father, the first for the little boys without theirs. But, Angela was the matriarch of this family; she would be cool, calm, and she would hold it all together.

Her young charge, Corey Perredine, was helping the staff to set the table, something that amused Angela. Clearly the boy was not used to being waited on; he was raised to perform chores. At first Angela insisted that he refrain from doing so, but he'd slip into his old habits. Finally, she relented. Her staff adored the little boy, and she was quite fond of him as well. Today would not be easy for him either, she realized as she looked out at the veranda at him folding napkins. His father had left him several months ago.

Angela sighed and walked away from the window, sinking down into her favorite chair. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to have to face all of this by herself. All the strong men in her life—Nathan, Dallas, Jonas—were all gone. Even the ones on the periphery, like Charles and John, had left her as well. Hikaro was still there, but they'd never been close. They had butted heads, constantly. Angela had chuckled to herself when she had realized why: they were too much alike to get along.

While she was thinking of him, she remembered that she didn't like Hikaro's presumption in sending her granddaughter on that little quest with John's son. Gabriel was dangerous; even John himself had seen the warning signs. But Angela felt she couldn't interfere; doing so would mean exposing the secret. And Hikaro had clearly plotted for a long time to bring Claire and Gabriel together. He was a clever man. So Angela had to sit by and stew while her Japanese rival orchestrated the great scheme. He had more faith than she was comfortable with.

"Mrs. Petrelli?" a small voice aroused her from her thoughts. Angela looked up to find Corey standing a few feet away, staring at her.

"Yes? What is it?" Angela asked sharply, then felt some remorse for her tone.

"I think they're here, ma'am. I can smell them."

With a sigh, Angela lifted herself from the chair and walked over to Corey, taking his small hand in hers. "Very well. Come, dear. They'll want to meet you."

They had nearly reached the front door when they heard the knock. Corey grinned to himself. His nose never failed him.

Angela put on her bravest face and opened the door, immediately drawing Heidi into her arms for a hug and then embracing her two grandsons, cooing to them. Corey stood patiently off to the side and waited for Angela to acknowledge him. Finally, after affection had been distributed in appropriate amounts, Angela took Corey by the shoulders and stood behind him.

"Heidi, Simon, Monty, I'd like you to meet Corey. I've taken him in as a sort of pet project," Angela said that with the sweetest smile she could muster.

Heidi looked a bit skeptical, but she took Corey's hand. "Hi! It's nice to meet you."

"Very nice to meet you too, ma'am. Thank you," Corey replied, in his best Southern accent. Angela smiled. At least she didn't have to teach the boy manners.

"Hey everyone," came a voice from the threshold. Everyone turned to see it was Peter, smiling uneasily. Heidi returned the smile with confidence, but Angela's carefully made up façade fell. She couldn't hide her resentment well, and she knew it. But she steeled herself and walked over to Peter, kissing his scruffy cheek. "Hello, dear. I'm so glad you could come," she told him, but her voice was as cold as ice.

The two of them glared at each other, mother and son, but finally Angela broke off the silent confrontation and said, "Boys, why don't you go play while brunch is being finished? Corey, show Simon and Monty your room."

While the boys skipped away together, Angela took Heidi by the arm and led her into the house, assuming that Peter would follow, which of course he did.

"How have you been dear?" Angela asked softly as they made their way to the veranda.

Heidi sighed. "As best as can be expected, I guess. The boys seem to be doing well too, though we all have our moments."

Angela nodded. "I went through the same thing when my husband died. I stayed strong, because I had two boys to take care of as well." They now sat down at the table, and Angela raised her glass bitterly. "We're both widows now. We have to stick together."

Heidi nodded and turned to Peter. "How have you been?"

Peter glanced briefly at Angela before answering. "I've…tried to keep busy."

"We all have," Heidi agreed. "Then there are days like this where we just have to stop. But, it'll be over soon." Heidi took a quick sip of her water, clearly hiding the sob that was about to come upon her.

Peter laid his hand on his sister in law's. "You know Nathan wouldn't want you to grieve. He'd want you to move on with your life, and live open and honestly. And…speaking of honesty--"

"Peter, dear, I need to speak with you for a moment," Angela cut in quickly, getting up from the table and briskly walking into the house. Peter, having no choice, followed.

He followed his mother into the office, where she promptly closed the door behind him. She then leaned upon it, just staring at him.

"What?" Peter finally asked.

"Leave Heidi alone. She's been through enough. Don't drag her into your little drama," Angela said coldly.

Peter glared at his mother. "This isn't some 'little drama', Mom. Heidi has the right to know about Nathan!"

"No, she has the right to grieve believing that her husband lived a normal life and died in a freak accident. She has the right to be angry that he could have achieved great things but didn't."

"You blame me for Nathan's death; fine," Peter spat. "But there's no use keeping secrets. They all come out, eventually."

Angela shook her head in condescension. "Oh, child, don't you talk to me about secrets. You think you know everything there is to know about this family? You've barely scratched the surface." She now walked towards him, menacingly. "I know your type, Peter. A wistful, crusading, muckraker who thinks that his way is the best. But let me tell you something. Secrets are what can hold a house, and a family together. Secrets keep people safe and happy. Nathan understood that."

"And Nathan's gone, and you think that the wrong son died, right?" Peter retorted bitterly. "You've always put Nathan on a pedestal; why is that? What did I ever do to deserve so much scorn from you? The woman I grew up with was strong and had a sense of morals. Where along the line did you become such a vindictive bitch?"

With that, Angela slapped Peter across the face. He didn't even flinch. But she got into his face and hissed, "Nathan wasn't supposed to die in your explosion—yes, _your_ explosion! He was supposed to stay behind to clean up the mess you made, just like always! And now…now, I don't what's going to happen now." Angela walked away from him, towards the window.

"Nathan was supposed to lead this big war we're about to fight, wasn't he?" Peter asked quietly.

Angela spun around. "How do you know about the war?"

He shrugged. "Nakamura told me. It was one of the arguments he used to persuade me to allow Claire to go with Sylar."

Angela chuckled mirthlessly. "Hikaro. Always one step ahead of me."

Then, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," Angela answered tensely. It was Heidi.

"Sorry to interrupt," she began. "But brunch is on the table, and the boys are hungry. Maybe we should start?"

Angela put on her false, pleasant face and turned to Peter. "Yes, we're done with our conversation, aren't we dear? Refreshments now sound lovely."

But Peter, ever the "muckraker" as his mother called him, wasn't about to stay and keep up appearances. He walked over to Heidi and gave her a kiss. "I won't be able to stay, after all. Have a good meal, and give the boys a hug for me." With that, he left.

Heidi called after him, to no avail. She turned to Angela in surprise. "What was that all about?"

Angela shrugged. "It's the holiday, dear. It's made him emotional. Come. Let's go eat."

After they had finished their meal, and Angela sent Heidi and the boys away with a kiss and a hug, and after the evening fell and she'd put Corey to bed, the matriarch made her way to her bedroom. Sitting down at the vanity, she opened a drawer and took off the wooden paneling, to reveal a hidden compartment. Reaching in, she pulled out a rectangular object draped in white silk. She pulled off the cloth to reveal a picture in a frame. Tears came to her eyes as she looked at it.

"Oh, Jonas," she said in a shaky voice. "Our boy is gone."

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

"So, do you like it, Dad?" Micah asked his father.

D.L. stared in awe at the CD player his son had built and enhanced all by himself. He had an extraordinary talent. D.L. could only hope that he and Nikki would be able to give Micah all the chances to use those talents. It made him proud and sad at the same time.

He hugged his son to him. "I love it, son. Thanks." He smiled at Nikki, who was cleaning up the table after the special dinner she cooked for them. She smiled back and walked into the kitchen.

Nikki smiled to herself as she began putting the dirty dishes in the sink and wrapping up the leftovers from dinner. Things were finally beginning to calm down. She and D.L. had found jobs, and they were able to stay on top of the bills for the most part. They still didn't have the money to enroll Micah in a private school for the gifted, but he was able to skip several grades in public school; he was now at the tenth grade level. Niki didn't know if Micah faced ostracism from his schoolmates, because the boy did such a good job of keeping to himself. Oh well. It certainly wasn't the worst thing they ever had to overcome. Besides, today was D.L.'s day. He was happy. Micah seemed happy. Niki was happy enough.

As Niki wiped off one of the freshly washed plates, she cautiously raised it to her face and looked into it. _She_ wasn't there. There was no smug face identical to hers; only her own somber visage.

But as Niki looked deeper into the china surface, she began to see something else there. Curious, she brought the plate a little closer and looked as hard as she could.

It was Christmas. It had to be, because there was a pine tree with lights on it in a room that Niki was familiar with. Next to that tree was an easy chair, and in the easy chair was a man that she paradoxically knew very well and not very well at all. It was her father.

He had a glass in his hand, filled with some dark brown liquid. She knew what it was. It had a high, bitter smell when it was on his breath. There was a little girl who looked to be about twelve years old huddled in the far corner. She was blond and frail. Her shoes were dirty.

The girl looked like she was afraid to move from the spot, and she was watching her father intently. Niki knew something was going to happen.

"Nine o'clock. I told you to come home at nine o'clock. Didn't I?" he asked in a tense, quiet voice, seemingly to the glass he was holding in his hand. The girl gulped and scrunched further into the corner.

"Well didn't I!?" her father bellowed, now bolting out of his chair. The little girl whimpered and grasped the walls with her hands.

"I-I'm sorry, Daddy! I l-lost track of time at T-Tina's! Her mother brought me home safe, right?"

"Don't you sass me, you little whore!" He now lunged toward the spot where the girl sat. "You were probably whoring around with that little slut Tina, weren't you? Never want to do what I tell you!" He threw the glass across the room and it shattered to pieces. She winced at the sound.

"Daddy, please! I'll never do it again, I swear!" She practically screamed at the man now towering above her.

With that, he yanked her to her feet by the collar of her shirt. "You lying whore! You never do the right thing! And I always have to beat it into you!" With that, he brought his hand back, and began to bring it toward her with surprising force…

"No!!!!" Niki screamed, dropping the plate.

D.L. and Micah rushed into the kitchen to find Niki kneeling in a puddle of broken china fragments, her head in her hands.

"Oh God. Micah, get the broom and dustpan from the closet," D.L. told his son, who quickly obeyed. Gently D.L. knelt down next to his wife and pulled her hands away from his face.

"Come on, babe. You're gonna cut yourself sitting in this mess," he told her. Taking her by the waist, he brought her to her feet and walked her out of the kitchen while Micah began to sweep up the broken plate. D.L. sat Niki down on the living room sofa and knelt down next to her.

"What happened?" he whispered.

"She protected me from him," Niki whispered back, her eyes red and wet. "As long as she was…inside with me, I didn't have to remember. But now she's gone, and…and…"

"And you're remembering the things your father did to you," D.L. gently finished the sentence. Niki nodded with a shudder.

D.L. sighed and patted her thigh. "We have to find help for you, Babe. You can't keep going like this."

She shook her head. "I'm afraid of what I'm going to find if I do. I'm afraid…they'll haul me off again like they did before. I'll lose you and Micah. And I'm not strong enough to go through that again," she said, her voice breaking into a sob.

D.L. drew Niki to him, gently stroking her hair while she sobbed. "You could never lose us," he cooed to her. "We're a part of you." He held her close, rocking her gently.

After a while Niki broke away and began to dry her tears. "Um, I should go clean up the kitchen," she said as evenly as she could.

D.L. shook his head. "No, you should go upstairs and get some rest. Micah and I will clean up."

"But...today is your day," she argued.

"It was a great day," he answered. "But I'm not going to have a happy time if I'm worrying about you. Now go on. Go to sleep. We'll handle it."

Eventually Niki gave in and went upstairs. She took a warm shower and slipped under the covers, watching the day drift into evening through the window. Truthfully, she was afraid to close her eyes for what she might find there.

Father's Day. It was a day of joy to so many people. To Micah, to D.L. But to her, it was a reminder of what had been ugly and diseased in her life. She wanted to rise above it. She wanted to let it go. She wanted to be a hero.

Eventually, she let sleep take her over, and, fortunately, found herself in a dull, dreamless slumber.

"That's the last of the shards, Dad," Micah said to D.L. as he emptied the dust bin into the trash can. D.L. was wiping off the kitchen counter.

"Great. Your mom will thank you," D.L. replied.

Micah sat down at the breakfast table and looked at his hands. He wanted to ask his dad, but he was afraid to. He didn't know what would happen if he did.

Finally, he couldn't take the silence anymore. "Dad?" he began.

"Yeah, son?"

"Mom's dad really hurt her, didn't he?"

D.L. gave Micah such an intense look that the young boy practically winced. But then the older man sighed and walked over to the table, sitting across from his son.

"Yeah. He did. You mom had to go through things no kid should ever have to."

Micah thought about it for a while, then said, "That's why Mom created Jessica, right? So that she wouldn't have to think about it?"

D.L. cocked a brow. His son was intuitive beyond his years. He sighed. "That's probably why. I don't know for sure."

"Is she ever going to be ok, Dad? I mean, are we ever going to be normal?"

D.L. chuckled and mussed Micah's hair. "I can walk through walls. You talk to computers. Your mom can pull a parking meter out of the ground. Once that becomes normal, I think we'll be okay."

Micah grinned. "I'm going to go say good night to Mom. Is that ok?"

"Yeah. Go say good night. I've got a few things to take care of."

After Micah left the room, D.L. remained sitting at the table, rubbing his temples. Niki was getting ill again, and that worried him. Before, she had had crutches to lean on: first the alcohol, then Jessica. But there were no crutches left, and she was now having to deal with the horrors of her past. D.L. could manage the house, and he could pay the bills, but could he hold them together as well? He didn't know.

He wanted to be a good father, better than the one he'd had. That was one thing that he and Niki were united on—wanting to break the tradition of neglect and abuse they'd endured. But, D.L. had to admit, he didn't suffer the way his wife had. His mother had done all she could do; she worked hard, provided for him, supported him the best she knew how. But there was an impassible gap in D.L.'s life: the lack of his father.

He didn't really know his father, though he had seen him before. His father was a sophisticated man, noble of gait and bearing. He was also wealthy, though D.L. and his mother usually didn't see much of that. D.L. knew his father also had a daughter from his "legitimate" relationship, but he didn't know anything about her.

There was only one particular memory that stood out for him concerning his father. It was around his 13th birthday, and his father had come to see him. His mother made him stay inside his room, but D.L. opened the door a crack so he could hear what was being said.

"You never come to see the boy, you never give him anything, and now you want to give him some rinky dink little watch?" he heard his mother angrily demand.

"I told you before, Viola. David is special. Everything I do, I'm doing in his best interest."

"Best interest, eh? Him having to go to school in old shoes, while all the other boys have their fathers buy them the things they need? You know, I never wanted anything from you myself. I was just a fling to you, and I don't care. But—he's your son! Take care of your own!"

He heard his father sigh. He almost sounded like he was talking to a child, which made D.L. angry. His mother was one of the strongest, smartest women he knew, and she didn't deserve to be treated that way.

"Viola, I don't expect you to understand. Maybe someday you will. Just please give my son this watch for me." There was a pause. "I'll go now. I have to get back to my family."

"Oh yes, that's right. Your family. Because we're no family of yours, right?" D.L.'s mother spat. "Fine. I'll take the stupid watch." With that, she shut the door on him.

D.L. quickly closed the door and jumped onto his bed, pretending to study. But his mother didn't come in. He heard her go to her room, then emerge a few minutes later. Soon after, dinner was ready, and she didn't mention anything about his father's visit.

When his mother went to her second job in the evening, D.L. got his chance. Quietly he slipped into her room and looked around, trying to find the present his father gave to him. He was about to give up when he remembered the drawer in the night table by his mother's bed. He slid it open, and saw the Bible his mother always kept inside, but nothing more. Then he noticed that it wasn't facing up, the way it usually did. Carefully he took it out, and realized there was something wedged between the pages. He opened the bible and found the watch his father had given to him.

D.L. sat down on his mother's bed and looked at the glittering timepiece. It appeared to be made of gold and silver, and it was quite heavy. The band on the watch was huge; it was clearly designed for an adult wrist, not for a boy's. Why would his father give him a watch that didn't fit him? But what interested him the most was that the numbers inside didn't look like any numbers he'd ever seen. They were odd stick symbols that didn't make sense to him. It intrigued him, and he wanted to keep it. But he knew he couldn't. His mother would decide what to do with it, and he didn't want to cross her.

So carefully D.L. put the watch back between the pages of the bible, and laid the book back in the drawer the way his mother had had it. He never said anything to his mother, and she never said a word about it to him. A few days later, his mother bought him a brand new pair of shoes and a new bookbag. D.L. didn't bother to look in his mother's bible again. He knew the watch wasn't there anymore.

Hikaro Nakamura sat in the drawing room of his New York suite and finished his glass of sake. He had no business transactions in the American city, but it was where his son Hiro had disappeared, and so he wanted to stay close. Just in case…he somehow found his way back.

Nakamura didn't know where his son was exactly, but he knew that it was far away, inaccessible. The days following his son's disappearance were hard enough, but today was the western holiday, Father's Day. It wasn't extravagant and overblown like some holidays in this country, but Nakamura nevertheless felt it when his chauffeur timidly approached him and asked if he could have the afternoon off to spend time with his children.

"Very well," Nakamura said without emotion. "I have no errands for today anyway."

The man profusely thanked him and left.

Now the day was almost over, and while Nakamura was grateful for it, the emptiness of the next days to come settled upon him like a dark, oppressive cloud.

His oldest child, his daughter Kimiko, now ran the business. And she was…efficient. If he wanted to retire, he certainly could. But the company was the only thing that kept him from arousing _his_ attention…

Now, sitting in his comfortable leather chair, Nakamura remembered when he saw his old foe last.

Nakamura and his allies had dropped _him_ at the Invisible Lake. It was cold, terribly cold. And it was bright. It was so bright, Angela had dipped her head against Jonas' shoulder to keep out the light.

But _he_ didn't even flinch. With a measure of dignity, _he_ walked into the crimson pit, and allowed it to cover _him _over with its diaphanous bars of iron.

Nakamura imprisoned _him_ in the pit himself; _he_ wouldn't allow anyone else to do it. And as _he _stood on the edge,_ he_ looked back at the man who was both his dearest friend and his bitterest enemy.

"You know this prison won't hold me forever, Hikaro," _he_ told him. "I'll be back someday."

"I know you will, my friend," the Japanese warrior replied. "And we'll be here to fight you."

_He_ smiled wryly and nodded. "There's something I need to tell you. Michiko will be furious, but it's better you hear it from me."

Nakamura's face darkened. He turned and looked up at his allies, who were staring back in unease. They didn't like him talking to the _Destroyer._

He turned back to their prisoner. "Whatever it is, make it fast."

"Michiko is pregnant again," _he_ said. "And she's not going to make it through this one."

Nakamura felt his heart drop, and for the first time, he actually felt the cold coming in. "Go," he whispered to _him_.

And _he_ turned and walked into the pit. And it was done. Angela clung to Jonas. John cleared his throat and looked away. Charles just looked weary.

It happened as _he_ said it would. Michiko gave birth to another child, this time a boy, and was gravely ill right afterwards.

Nakamura pretended to be surprised by it all. He sat at her bedside until the very end, holding her hand, telling her she'd live through it. Both of them knew the truth.

"Don't resent Hiro," was one of the last things Michiko told him. "It's not his fault."

"How am I going to face_ him_ again without you?" Nakamura asked, holding her hand against his cheek.

She smiled, almost dreamily. "You're not. Hiro is my gift to you. I live in him."

But now Hiro was gone, and that meant that Michiko was gone too. Nakamura sighed and got out of his chair, walking over to the window to look out at a city that wasn't his own.

But then the old familiar feeling came over him again, and he could see all the moments of the present in front of him, like many video screens all at once. In a small Tuscan village, there was an electrical storm, and a young Japanese man appeared out of nowhere, dressed in odd scraps of clothing. He was dirty, confused, and bewildered, but he was strong, and he was ready for anything.

Tears came to Nakamura's eyes. His son had returned.


End file.
